[Chapel] The Ritual [Veldrys]

[Tabarnac]

5th Summer, 511 A.V. The chapel was transformed. Heavy red wall hangings covered stone and window indiscriminately, and candles burned in sconces and candelabra everywhere, granting no respite from the accumulated heat of summer and the bodies of Denvali worshipers. The light, the heat, the carmine cast upon the skin of all, these things made the chapel like the inside of a womb, or a beating heart as breath and music made the lights flicker. Some chanted, others sang. Most rolled wooden or leather-covered mallets around the inside of bronze bowls of various sizes that pulled out overtones that sang along with the human, or humanoid, congregation. Musicians played, too. Some arhythmic, dissonant, others pulling everything forward with the inevitability of a heartbeat. The ritual was popular, and there was standing room only. Captain Astrid, Chaplain Zahari, and other notables were near the front. Those who felt most blessed by the God were present, and obviously a great deal of Denvali felt so blessed. Haimon turned to face the assembled crowd, hands raised in a benediction, but he was not calling for silence. In fact, the melodious cacophony grew in volume, and he smiled, flushed and sweating, then indicated that Veldrys, his acolyte should bring the bronze bowl before him. Veldrys, cupbearer to the God. The people began to file up toward the altar, first in line being flame-haired Astrid herself.

[Veldrys]

The Symenestra had been in Denval for two seasons now, but he had never seen the Chapel like that. It had always been a sombre place, quiet, plain, the kind of place where he went when he wanted to be away from the rest of the world. But now red wall hangings covered everything, and the building was filled with the light of countless candles. The building had been utterly transformed. It was crowded, and it was loud, so loud that he hesitated for a moment before he assumed his place next to the Chaplain of Viratas. He hadn’t seen so many people in one place in a long time. Something about this day reminded him of the countless masses that were held to celebrate his god in his native Kalinor, but at the same time it was different. There were people there that would have been killed if they had set a foot into Kalinor, raped and murdered in the most brutal way before their bodies were dumped onto the cavern floor to rot or to be eaten by whatever horrors lived down there. This here almost seemed like a purer kind of worship to him. As far as he was concerned all those people that were now gathered before him, be they human or something else, were worth the same. Their blood had the same color, and they had the same right to be here. There was something strange in the air, something almost tangible, a sense of growing expection. The Symenestra could not help but be curious about what was yet to come. As Haimon indicated for him to bring the bronze bowl, he inclined his head and did so without hesitation, and then he turned to face the people that were approaching the altar. Everybody who mattered in Denval seemed to have come, including the Captain herself who he had never talked to before. He looked at her for a moment, and then he focused on Haimon again, wondering if the human had another task for him and what exactly his part in the ritual would be.

[Tabarnac]

Once the bowl was readied, Haimon nodded to Veldrys to keep it there. It was his responsibility to catch all the blood offered to Viratas that day. The chaplain pulled out a silver knife, chased in vein-like glyphs, the pommel winking with rubies and garnets. He held his wrist over the bowl and blessed his offering with the words, "May this blood give greater life." The people replied en masse with the same benediction. He cut over the shining tracery of faint scars, letting his blood into the bowl. Priestly blood seemed to call that Presence Veldrys remembered as soon as it hit the etched bronze interior. But a simple offering was one thing, and this a ritual. The Presence of the god nearly bowled the Symenestra acolyte over, and one or two voices moaned in recognition. Haimon quickly bound his wound, then held the knife over the bowl as the people filing up reached out to nick themselves, letting a bit of blood into the bowl, though some, more zealous than others, cut deeper and bled more. The crowd came, one by one, and soon there was a great collection of mixed blood in Veldrys' bowl, but it never seemed to pass a certain mark. As the Presence snaked out to connect everyone who bled for Him, the blood was drunk, slowly dissipating into that corner of the Ukalas that Viratas called home. The last to make offering moved to sit down, and Astrid herself, though she had been first to let blood after Haimon, returned to take the blood offering from Veldrys while Haimon looked at him, knife ready for him should he choose to make holy communion with them. The music continued, more strident now, as if the heart were pounding.

[Veldrys]

The Symenestra didn’t say anything as Haimon indicated that it would be up to him to hold the bowl during the ritual, but simply nodded again. He was reluctant to raise his voice. He feared that it would take away from the sanctity of the moment, that it would be seen as an unwelcome interruption, no matter how loud the music was, no matter that it wouldn’t be noticed by anybody but those that were closest to him. He had never taken part in anything like that before and could not help but feel honored. As Haimon cut himself, he made a step towards him so that the human’s blood would flowl into the bowl, so that not a single drop of the precious liquid would be lost. Just as he turned to face the crowd in front of him once more, he could feel it – or more precisely him, a sensation that reminded him of what he had felt when he had first sacrificed his blood here, but magnified thousandfold. He was here, maybe even in this room, watching. That awareness was enough to nearly make him drop down on his knees. He had never felt so close to him. His amethyst eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, as if to ask a question, but then he decided to just concentrate on those that were in the Chapel with him. Mere words couldn’t describe what he felt. He had made an offering often enough to know that the blood always disappeared before it passed a certain mark, but it amazed him nevertheless. Was it Viratas himself who drank it? As they all walked up to him, he held the bowl completely still. His hands didn’t tremble once, and his head was bowed. He was silently praying to his god now. He only raised his head again after the Captain herself had made her offering. It was then that he noticed they way Haimon looked at him. He nodded at him and Astrid, and then he took the knife and made a quick cut across his palm so that his blood would be mixed with what was already in the bowl. Was it just him or was the music even louder than before now?

[Tabarnac]

As the Symenestra's blood trickled into the bowl, Astrid smiled at him. There was a warmth to the sword-like woman, but it was reserved for those she considered her people. She was polite and obliging to foreigners and tourists, but Veldrys had chosen to dwell among them, to set aside the wisdom of his own people to explore the wisdom of hers, and so she considered him in some way Denvali. And as his blood trickled into the bowl, he could feel, or perhaps he was imagining it, a ghostly hand brush across his, hear a voice saying something indistinct, though that might have been the pounding of his pulse in his ears, or the frenzied music of the ritual. Just then Haimon grunted, holding his wrist in his hand as the blood began to seep quickly beyond the capability of his binding to restrain it. His eyes, not pained, were ecstatic, and the blood did not fall. Instead it slid up his arm as he staggered back, until all his visible skin was gleaming carmine in the light of a thousand candles. His clothes soaked up nothing, and the blood stopped flowing out of his wound, and what was there flowed into his mouth. When this was done, Haimon was no longer there, but another man. He was as broad-shouldered as Haimon, but more substantial. More real. His hair, no longer silver, was crimson. His eyes burgundy. He was unmistakably Viratas. The weight of his Presence drove Veldrys, the Captain, and everyone else to their knees as if gravity had trebled, though there was a strange buoyancy, a lightness within. He was terrible, but there was a terrible kindness to Him as well. A care. A concern. The Captain's hands flared with pure white light, the marks of her gnosis reacting to that Presence. But everyone had eyes for the God among them. Several people began to wail, a joyous thing. He smiled, hands raised in blessing, quickening their blood. Then He turned that burgundy gaze upon the Symenestra. "You are far from your Blood, little brother," He said, and it was indeed that same voice heard in the rush of blood to the head.

[Veldrys]

As his blood slowly trickled into the bowl, it seemed to him as if he could feel something for a moment, a presence, a hand touching his, brushing across his, as light as a feather, as if it came from another world. He could hear a voice as well, at the edge of his awareness, murmurring something. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out what he – the voice seemed to be that of a man, without a doubt – was saying. It seemed to come from far away. Maybe it was just his mind, his sometimes overactive imagination, playing tricks of him. Maybe it was just his own heart, that was beating faster and faster, pounding loudly in his chest, the effect that the music had on him. It made his head spin a little. Something was happening. Something that he didn’t understand. He abruptly looked at Haimon, at the human’s hand that had begun to bleed, more than it should. The Symenestra looked concerned, wondered if he should help, but then he let it be. The chaplain didn’t seem to be in pain. This was not one of the times when a healer was needed. This was something else, something extraordinary, a kind of transformation that he had never witnessed before and was unlikely to ever witness again. The Symenestra stood completely still as he watched how the human he knew was replaced by something else, by somebody else. He instantly dropped on his knees and lowered his head as he recognized him, the being he had worshipped all his life. He had never seen him before, but he knew who he was, without a doubt. For a moment he didn’t even dare to breathe. He had never expected this. What had he done, what had the people in this Chapel done to deserve this? He had dreamed of a moment like this, when he would look at him, but he had never dared to hope that it would really happen. For a moment the Symenestra felt paralyzed. He didn’t know what he should do, what he should say. It seemed to him as if anything he could do would be insufficient. As he heard the god’s voice, he hesitated for a moment. But as he spoke, his voice was clear and confident – and full of respect for the one that stood before him. He raised his head a fraction to meet that burgundy gaze. Part of him was afraid to look at the divine being, but it might be his only chance, his only opportunity to do so. „I am far from Kalinor, from my Blood and my people, my lord“, he confirmed. „But in a way they ...“ He gestured towards the Denvali gathered behind him, towards Astrid whose hands glowed with a white light. „... are my blood as well, even though we do not have the same ancestors and belong to different races.“

[Tabarnac]

The god's regard lay heavily upon the acolyte, but whatever judgments he made were hidden behind his inscrutable face. He seemed alert and somewhat amused by the proceedings, and Veldrys realized then that the drumming had ceased, that the continuing pulse throughout the room came from the Heart of Viratas Himself, pumping sacred blood through Haimon's borrowed veins. "It is good you are here," He said, "among these others. You begin to see the larger reality, that everything is interconnected. I came for these, My people, for Haimon," and for a moment, Haimon's face reappeared where Viratas' was, the more familiar face exalted in a mask of ecstatic communion, and then he was subsumed into Viratas' face, "and for you, My son." He reached out, two fingers touching the soft skin of Veldrys' neck, tingling like lightning about to strike, burning like a brand. He palpated the Symenestra's pulse at the carotid artery, and when His fingers moved away, a garnet dark jewel shone there, the gem that summoned the god. After a moment it flashed and disappeared, briefly lighting up Veldrys' artery as the god magic flowed through him. Viratas reached out and clasped His acolyte's slender bicep, and the magic was called there. He squeezed and released, leaving only four links of a chain, one bright and red, the others yet dark. "I am well pleased with you, and grant you a measure of My power. Use it well and wisely, and guard these your people against unnecessary bloodshed. They will need your help in the seasons to come." Briefly, his face darkened and Veldrys felt the tremors of fear all through him at the thought of what might dim the countenance of a god, but the trials to come were not disclosed unto him. Viratas was benevolent at the moment, but He did not wipe the bottoms of His people. They were, after all, people, not suckling infants.

[Veldrys]

The Symenestra could feel the god’s gaze on him, almost burning into him. He stood completely straight. He didn’t bow under the god’s gaze, but at the same time he hardly dared to move. He could not help but wonder what his god thought of him, whether he even thought anything. Did gods think, did they feel the same way as mortals did? It seemed almost like a sacrilege to compare them to be a lowly Symenestra. He could still feel the strange pulsing, throughout the room. The sound of it captured him for a moment, and he concentrated on it. It took him a while to realize that it didn’t come from anywhere outside, but that Viratas himself was the source, that it was his sacred blood, flowing through Haimon’s borrowed veins. He instantly focused on the god again. As Viratas stated that it was good that he was here, the Symenestra inclined the head, appreciative of his words. „Everything is interconnected“, he agreed. As Viratas reached out to him, the Symenestra held his breath for a moment. His touch felt strange, tingling, almost burning, as if he had been struck by lightning. He didn’t see the dark jewel that appeared for a moment or how his artery briefly lit up – he couldn’t look at his own neck – but he could feel it. As the links appeared on his arm, he touched them in awe. Slender fingers that were adorned with dark nails brushed across them before they came to rest on the one bright red link. „I will help these people in any way I can, my lord“, he promised. As the god’s face darkened, the Symenestra shuddered. Fear gripped his heart for a moment. For a moment he was about to ask what would happen in the coming seasons, what could possibly cause a god to look like that, but at the same time he was utterly aware that Viratas would not reveal it. He was not the kind of god that pampered his followers and guided them every step of the way.

[Tabarnac]

The god paused, carmine gaze fixed upon the Symenestra as if He could see through him, watching the vitae pump through his arteries, veins, and capillaries, flooding him with life. If a god could show indecision, this was it, measuring how much special knowledge to grant a man, enough to help but not so much as to hurt. Such was wisdom, and He chose to impart a small portion to these, a collection of His faithful. "Ware the butterflies of precious paint Writ large upon the fallen's walls Find the root of entropy's taint Fuse the orbs ere Denval falls." The cadence of His prophecy pushed into Veldrys like an insistent lover, cleaving his brain asunder to find a spot to roost. A collective groan passed through the faithful, a scattering of pained screams, the alarm of several fainting spells. Even Astrid winced, struggling to keep her grip upon Viratas' chalice even as the celestial language threatened to shatter her mind. The lights in her hands flared protectively, and another hopeful Presence added Its weight to the air, succoring Its chosen, and Astrid straightened with the strength and balance of a sword beside Veldrys. The prophecy, it would seem, was for the Symenestra acolyte alone.

[Veldrys]

As the god’s gaze continued to linger on him, it almost seemed to the Symenestra as if he could look right through him for a moment, into him, as if neither skin nor bones provided any kind of hindrance to him. It almost seemed to him as if Viratas‘ gaze reached the veins and arteries that carried the most sacred of liquids inside of them, as if he could see his heart that was pumping blood throughout his body. He still didn’t dare to move, but waited for the god to say more or leave those people, his followers again. As Viratas spoke again though, his words didn’t make any sense to the Symenestra. But unlike those that were in the chapel with him, he didn’t scream. He didn’t faint or wince, but he did feel a little strange, a little weak, as if his knees threatened to give way under him. It took him a moment to steady himself and stand completely upright again. What could the ominous prophecy he had just heard possibly mean? Why the mention of butterflies? What about the root? It seemed as if Denval would fall if something in particular didn’t happen, but he didn’t know what that could be. Did „butterflies“ stand for something else? How could he even begin to solve such a riddle? Was there anybody in Denval who would be able to help him? Had anybody besides him heard the god’s words? He looked at Astrid, an unspoken question on his lips, but there was nothing that betrayed whether Viratas had shared his message with her. There was only that light in her hands. His heart began to beat faster as he finally felt the true weight of what he had just witnessed.